


Do The Stars Gaze Back

by angeleyeddevil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cas is dead and Dean is not okay, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, M/M, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 10:22:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11735079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeleyeddevil/pseuds/angeleyeddevil
Summary: On the day of Castiel's death, Dean did not cry.Standing over the body of the man - no, the angel - whom Dean had loved so unconditionally stirred up a lot of emotions which he would have rather stowed away, deep in his mind, never to be felt again. There was sadness there, he knew that, and pain and anger and maybe just the tiniest bit of hope, burgeoning in him, like a flower growing in a desolate and scorched climate. Hope that he would see Castiel again, because he was an angel, because he always came back. Didn't he?





	Do The Stars Gaze Back

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely M_esh.

On the day of Castiel's death, Dean did not cry. 

Standing over the body of the man - no, the angel - whom Dean had loved so unconditionally stirred up a lot of emotions which he would have rather stowed away, deep in his mind, never to be felt again. There was sadness there, he knew that, and pain and anger and maybe just the tiniest bit of hope, burgeoning in him, like a flower growing in a desolate and scorched climate. Hope that he would see Castiel again, because he was an angel, because he always came back. Didn't he? 

Even so, the agony at losing Castiel outweighed that small flame, at least at first. Dean's world had suddenly titled on it's axis; one of the two most important people in his life was now dead, and Dean had trouble processing that information. 

That's not to say he didn't try. 

Long after Sam had left him outside and gone back into the house where Kelly's corpse lay, Dean had stood beside the body of an angel he once knew - eyes averted - and looked at the stars. 

They were bright that night, a calming glow, mesmerising, their steady presence in the time of uncertainty almost grounding. 

Cas had liked the stars. He'd always wanted to watch them with Dean; it was one of his more romantic fantasies, sitting with the hunter on a sodden patch of grass, heads titled towards the sky, hands intertwined. They had never gotten round to it, despite Dean's promises. Dean supposed that they were doing something akin to that now - stargazing together. Only, one of them was dead, eyes glazed over, open yet unseeing. 

Castiel had told Dean once that he viewed the stars as his fallen comrades; angels who died in the line of battle, friends who gave their lives so that he could live on.

Maybe Castiel would join them, one day. Soon, Dean hoped. He did not want Castiel to suffer in death any longer than he had to. 

When he and Sam buried Castiel's body, Dean did not cry. 

He had insisted on a burial - not a hunters' funeral, like Castiel deserved. Shovelling earth onto the wooden coffin cocooned in a bed of soil, Dean remembered the time that he had been buried instead of cremated. After he had been sent to hell, Sam had refused to burn Dean's body, because he believed that his older brother would be back. Because he had hope. 

And Dean had returned - though he was not the man who had been dragged down into the Pit by that hellhound. Maybe, if Cas came back, he would be a changed man too - or a changed angel. There was no telling what species Cas would be on his return. If he ever did return. 

When they made it back to the bunker and Dean found himself in the room he used to call Castiel's, he did not cry. 

For the first time since he had stood over the lifeless body of his lover, Dean felt something. But it was not tears waiting to fall, like he had expected. A black, desolate feeling that threatened to consume Dean whole if he didn't repress it somehow; sitting low and heavy in his stomach, twisting his guts, blurring his vision, assaulting his senses - there was no end. He let himself slump to the floor, curling in on himself protectively as if to quash the storm inside of him. 

Sam found him like that, hours later, still covered in dirt and grime, looking older. 

On the next day, Dean did not cry. 

He threw himself into his research with only one thing on his mind: Cas. There was that hope again, light and airy within him, but it soon withered in the face of the impending maelstrom of black - that unnameable emotion which hit Dean at random times during the day, made him snappy and irritable as much as it made him ache with loss. 

That night, Dean went to bed drunk, and he did not cry. 

Over the next few days, the two remaining Winchesters settled into a routine. Wake up, research the bunkers files on anything remotely related to Cas' death (aided by copious amounts of alcohol on Dean's part), go to sleep. And as the days wore on, Sam's worries about his older brother were becoming increasingly clear, like the surface of a pond settling down after the wind disrupts it with little ripples. 

Sam was careful now; careful not to bring up Cas, careful to avoid the topic of Mary and his beliefs that she was still alive, careful not to anger Dean in any way, at all. It was obvious, not at first glance, but it was there in the way that Sam talked, in the way that he held himself; that pensiveness, weariness. He schooled his face into a blank sheet, his words were all chosen meticulously, in a last ditch effort to save Dean a little bit of pain.

Gone was the brotherly banter, the laughter, even the fights died away - just like Cas, Dean mused late one night after Sam had retreated to his room without exchanging so much as two words with his older brother during the course of the entire evening. 

In any other situation, Dean would have been mad with Sam. Only the fact that it was to try and protect him - to shoulder the burden of Cas' death with him rather than letting Dean carry all of the weight on his own - tamed Dean's anger. 

That was a lot to ask from someone who didn't know Castiel as intimately as Dean did. 

Sam had understood the two of them - Dean and Castiel - whatever they wanted to call their relationship, Sam had gotten it, encouraged it, even. Sam had lost partners who meant a lot to him too; Jess and Eileen. Sam understood what Dean was going through, and he was trying to help. The little flickers of emotion in Sam's gaze now and again, the abrupt change of conversation accompanied by an awkward cough, the piteous and sad smiles, all spoke of something more than brotherly support. Sam had loved Castiel too. Maybe not like Dean had, maybe he hadn't shown it in the same way, but they had still been close, like family. 

Dean wondered whether Sam had cried since watching Castiel die. He still hadn't. 

On the next day, Dean forgot that Castiel was dead, and he didn't cry. 

Cas had never really been a constant presence at the bunker; his visits were sudden and fleeting at best, but he had refused time and time again to take up permanent lodging with the brothers. To call the bunker home as they called it home. Dean never really understood why. Perhaps it was because he was an angel, perhaps he didn't feel he had the right to claim a small space in their home, perhaps he hadn't wanted to get too attached. 

That thought hit Dean like a punch to the face. 

Well, whatever Castiel's reasons had been, they hardly mattered now. 

Despite the fact that Castiel did not live with them, Dean woke up fully expecting the angel to be there. He expected to see that dirty brown trench coat hanging off the back of one of the chairs, or hear an extra pair of footsteps padding down the long since abandoned hallways, the deep rumble of Castiel's voice reverberating off the tile as he conversed with Sam on some wholly unimportant, frivolous matter. 

And when reality caught up with him, he couldn't quite believe it. His angel, dead - left in the wind, alone. 

It was like the world came crashing down around him once again. 

The feeling returned more forcefully after that, boiling and burning, destructive without destroying. But Dean had learnt to cope with it by now, and he went through the rest of the days motions ignoring the sick-like feeling in his chest. Moving around seemed to sate it for a while; so that's what Dean did. He'd spend hours finding odd jobs to do around the bunker, a busted lightbulb here, a leaky tap there. Distractions to ease the pain. 

It still didn't dissipate, though. In fact, it got worse, escalating and strengthening, preparing for something big. Come early evening, Dean couldn't take it any longer. 

He locked himself in his room without explaining anything to Sam - with any luck, his little brother would dismiss the concerns he had and assume that Dean was simply tired. As he stretched out on his bed, his phone fell out of his back pocket and clattered noisily to the floor. Cursing, Dean snatched it up, and as he felt the cool surface beneath his fingers, he had an idea. 

And try as he might, he knew the idea would cling to him just as the feeling of loss would, so he gripped his phone in his sweaty palm, unlocked it, and punched in Castiel's number. 

Dean held his breath, a small part of his subconscious anticipating the angel to pick up, to say his name again, to smile down the phone and tell Dean that he loved him before hanging up. 

He didn't. 

Instead, an automated message informed him that the phone he was trying to reach either had no signal or was turned off. 

Deflated, Dean let his phone drop back to the floor, and pressed his face into his pillow. Some time later, he fell into a light, troubled sleep. Mercifully, he did not dream. 

After that, the days developed a pattern. For Dean, it was a slog just to get through one day, let alone a week. The conflicting feelings of hope and loss never left him during the waking hours, and his sleep was just as tedious. 

Every nightmare ended in the same way. Dean, standing above Castiel, watching the last remnants of grace bleed out of him, the light fade from his eyes, his heart stop beating. As Castiel breathed his last breath, Dean would wake, a sweaty, trembling mess. 

A month passed. 

Sam still trod lightly around Dean. 

The nightmares still came. 

They did not find a way to resurrect Castiel. 

And Dean did not cry. 

Until he did.

The feeling of grief - for Dean had come to know it as grief - still raged on, fuelled by nothing but itself, a vicious circle. It was harder to live with it now, harder to forget the reason it enveloped Dean, chewed him up and spat him out, harder to ignore the fact that they had unearthed so little that could save Castiel. 

Dean knew that it would eat him alive. Eventually, he would succumb to it's siren-song and drown in the murky depths of despair. It was already so tempting; to give up the hope which he was nurturing deep within himself. He had to get rid of it somehow. Let it go, free himself. Only, he didn't know how. 

And so he drove. 

He paced the width and length of his room for hours, watching the clock, tick tock. Waiting for Sam to call goodnight and to hear the faint click of his door lock shut. Even then, he stood still for some time, physically vibrating, until he was sure that Sam would be asleep. 

Wandering the bunkers hallways at night was never his favourite thing; they were dirty and unlit in places, falling down in others - straight out of a low budget horror movie. But Dean didn't linger on it as he stealthily traversed the corridors, to the garage, and then to his Baby. 

He'd thought that driving would help; and it did, for a while. The rumble of the Impala's engine and the endless, grey tarmac helped soothe the feelings somewhat. He could forget everything that he had left behind at the bunker, focus on only himself and the car beneath him, his hands sweaty on the steering wheel and his posture, tense but relaxing with each passing mile. 

Dean was fine like that, until a memory forced its way into his mind unbidden. The human and the angel, side by side, laughing together. The human and the angel, holding each other close and whispering candid phrases into each other's ears as they peppered kisses across each other's necks. The human, educating the angel in the ways of classic rock, and the angel, hanging off every word, listening with equal parts intent and confusion. The human and the angel, just simply sitting in companionable silence, comfortable in each other's company, exchanging giddy smiles once in a while.

He pulled over and let the engine fade away into nothing, the sounds of the night choruses filtering through the windows of the car, attempting to pull Dean from his reprieve. 

They had spent a lot of time together here. 

As if in a daze, Dean slipped out of the car and meandered onto the dirt track which apparently constituted a road. There were no streetlights here, no people. He was the only person for miles and miles. It was only Dean and the stars. 

They were just as bright tonight as they were on the night that Castiel had died; perhaps even more so. They were tiny blots in a vast, cold universe; pinpricks to light Dean's way. 

Was Castiel up there, now? Dean hoped so. He may have wanted to stay on Earth, to stay with the Winchesters, but up there he could forget everything that had caused him so much strife. At least he was resting peacefully. Among his own kind, shining on for eternity, carefree and devoid of pain. That was all Dean wanted. 

Dean and Castiel had fought in the weeks leading up to the angel's death, and Dean had never really said he was sorry. Never really made it up to Castiel like he should have. But that hurt less than knowing that Castiel was still out there, powerless and without friends. If he was with the stars, then he wasn't hurting. If he was with the stars, then he was free. 

"Love you, buddy." Dean whispered it, a prayer for anyone who was listening.

He should have told Castiel that before he died. He should have told Castiel that at every available opportunity. 

Dean had a feeling that Castiel had heard him anyway. 

Lighter than before, Dean returned to the Impala and began the drive home. The little flower of hope was blooming, blossoming, and Dean could feel its radiance, warming him from the inside out, chasing away the darkness. 

As Dean glanced up at the stars again, drifting listlessly by, he realised that his cheeks were wet with tears.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please feel free to comment feedback - it means the world to me! 
> 
> Come talk to me on Tumblr @aetherealcas!


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